“You still on staff, sir?” “Yes.” He frowned and pocketed the badge. I said, “Looks like things have tightened up a bit since I was last here.” “This is expired,” he said. Looked up at me, then back at the ten-year-old black-and-white photo. He took it and studied it as if it were a clue to something. Eves.” “I need to see some ID, sir.” Surprised, I fished a five-year-old clip-on badge out of my pocket. Black-frame glasses over a triangular face.
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Blond-gray crewcut and a shave so close his skin looked wet-sanded. Just as I got to the elevators, a heavyset man in a navy-blue rent-a-cop uniform stepped out of nowhere and blocked my way. Rubbing alcohol, antibiotic bitters, the sticky-ripe liqueur of elixir and affliction. An occasional smile or bit of cheer brightened the inertial gloom, only to go out like a spark from a wet flint. Sharp words in foreign tongues crackled above the drone of Others- pale, thin, sunken, bald, painted in unnatural colors- stood there silently, heartbreakingly compliant. Some of the children- those who still looked like children- twisted and bounced and struggled against weary adult arms, breaking away for precious seconds of freedom before being snagged and reeled back in. Strangers bumped against one another and sought refuge in the placebo of banter. Babies wailed and suckled women sagged men swallowed curses and stared at the floor. The clerks avoided eye contact and worshipped paper. Not much granite visible this morning a crush of humanity filled the lobby, most of it darkskinned and cheaply dressed, queued up at the glassed-in booths, waiting for the favors of stone-faced clerks. Back in the days when philanthropists had been easy to come by. But some philanthropist had liked the look. Petitions against the illogic of polished stone in a place where children ran and walked and limped and wheeled. I’d just started my internship when they’d been installed. My own shoes were leather-bottomed and they clacked on the granite.
A group of surgical interns- God, they were taking them young- slouched by on paper-soled scrub slippers, humbled by double shifts. Spring, outside, but in here time had a different meaning.
Glossy depot for an unguided tour of uncertainty. Glass doors, black granite floors, high, concave travertine walls advertising the names of dead benefactors. Five years’ absence had turned me into a stranger, and as I entered the lobby anxiety tickled my belly. I’d spent a quarter of my life there, learning to deal with the rhythm, the madness, the starched whiteness of it all. ALFRED LORD TENNYSONġ It was a place of fear and myth, home of miracles and the worst kind of failure. Ring out the old shapes of foul disease Ring out the narrowing lust of gold. Devil’s Waltz Alex Delaware – Book 7 By Jonathan Kellerman To my son, Jesse, a gentleman and a scholar Special thanks to Reuben Eagle Allan Marder, Yuki Novick, Michael Samet, Dennis Payne,Īnd Harry Weisman, M.D.